“I was hoping it was you,” he smiled as she entered the room.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” she removed her coat, revealing a neckline that certainly crossed sartorial boundaries.

“I missed you last week,” he admitted, leading her to her spot at the table. “I’ve had the staff open a bottle of wine.”

“I wasn’t in the mood last week.” she lightly kissed his cheek before sitting down. “And I’ll take a glass please.”

“Are you hungry? I’ve not dined yet.”

She took a generous sip from her wine, “We can eat later.”

He grinned. Few things brought him as much joy as their weekly dinners that were paper thin excuses for everything but food.

“So you just… you’re all right? After last week?”

“Do you think,” she frowned, imbibed more wine, “Well, you own slaves.”

“I um — what’s that have to do with anything?”

“I fear this country is headed for war.”

He nodded, “It does seem inevitable Mexico won’t surrender gently.”

“Mexico isn’t what I mean.”

He refilled his own glass, and offered her the bottle. She took it readily; there was a wild look about her now that he’d never witnessed, but it wasn’t unwelcome either.

“You mean domestically. Over slavery.”

“I don’t mean today,” she’d finished her first glass and poured a second. “But I think it’s coming. I think that’s the only way the slavery question will be resolved. Especially. Well, you men are so quick-tempered.”

He wasn’t sure if she meant that to be a joke. He wasn’t very good with jokes.

“I don’t think you’re wrong,” he agreed, gently, placatingly. “But I’ll do what I can do avoid it.”

“You’re a sweet man,” she left her chair and went to his side. “I’m very charmed by you.”

He rose to meet her, and they kissed. She tasted like wine, but, he realized, she sort of always tasted like wine.

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I am doing the best I can.”

“I don’t blame you for the mood of the country. But I’ll take a distraction.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her deeply. He was skilled, fit, younger by far than the men with whom she normally found herself dallying.

“Shall we go upstairs?”

She paused long enough to finish her glass of wine, then positioned herself on the edge of the dining room table.

“Let’s stay here,” she was flushed, grinning.

“Oh you’re more dangerous than the Whigs.”

It was a wonderful compliment. “James, you’re a romantic.”

He was used to their rapport in the bedroom; he had prepared for that and nothing pleased James K. Polk more than a good plan. But taking her on the table in his dining room (the same table on which his comically long dinner parties took place) was unorthodox, and yet an expansion of their territory did tickle his fancy.

His thoughts funneled through the wine, he knew someone could walk in at any moment and yet how was he to resist what was in front of him? They continued kissing, her hands were on his waistcoat, in his trousers; he was powerless as they found his shaft. His lips moved to her neck; he nipped at her ear; he knew from experience that she wanted it to hurt just a little, that he should feel free to take out any frustrations he had about unifying the Democratic Party on her soft skin.

She moved back onto the table, careful to avoid the wine. He pushed up her dress, finished freeing himself from his clothes, hesitated a moment above her. This was his favorite part, those moments of anticipation. She relished it too, feeling him hard against her, knowing what was about to happen. He wanted her like he wanted Oregon, California, all of Mexico. She wanted him like she wanted voting rights.

“Jesus Christ James,” her eyes were shining. “Just do it already.”

He did immediately, aggressively, pushing his young hickory inside her. She felt incredible, and nearly laughed. He filled her completely, and she noted appreciatively that the height of his table was perfect. He pulled her to the edge of the table and went deeper, her clinch welcoming him like Congress welcomed his independent treasury system.

She grabbed the sides of the table, begged him to go harder. The rest of the world blissfully faded away; he was lost now, thrusting harder and faster, the only thing that mattered was that they both feel this good. He was slamming so hard into her she couldn’t believe it; it was incredible; he was a man on a mission. She loved his firm jaw, loved how handsome he was, loved watching his brow furrow as he concentrated on assailing her. She was sure the table would bruise her lower back, which only made her beg for him more.

He was the kind of man who took four years to accomplish what most couldn’t finish in eight, and it was that stamina and will to succeed that made him an incredible lover. He was focused, skilled, completely enrapturing her with his executive branch. She didn’t care if he reduced tariffs as long as he didn’t reduce the speed with which he was spoiling her.

His hands found her shoulders for leverage, and his Polk-stick continued its unabashed incursion into her department of the interior. He slowed momentarily, long enough that they both caught their breaths, long enough to watch his cock, covered with her wetness, as it penetrated her slowly. She begged him to speed up again and of course he obliged, knowing they were both nearing climax.

“Baby,” he grunted. Experience told her this meant he was close, and she tightened around him, encouraging him.

“Fill me up,” she moaned, and that was all he needed to take him over the edge. He was unconcerned with consequences; he’d been historically unlucky when it came to procreation. She loved feeling him as he came; he moaned and twitched before collapsing on top of her. She smiled and kissed his forehead, for a moment she was content and ignored his politics. So what they differed on the Wilmot Proviso, he was still a good man doing the best he could, and oh, it was the best.

“I needed that,” she admitted.

“Me too,” he tried to find the strength to get up, then resigned himself instead to a few more minutes testing the integrity of his table.

“You really aren’t going to run again?”

“I’m really not. I accomplished what I wanted. Get in, get it done, get out, that’s the Polk mantra.”

She laughed, aware he didn’t realize he’d made a joke. “Don’t I know it.”


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